


It takes all your power to prove that you don't care

by Derry Rain (smakibbfb)



Series: The Terror Hip Bingo [5]
Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-04
Updated: 2020-10-04
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:53:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26823205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smakibbfb/pseuds/Derry%20Rain
Summary: Fitzjames and Little in a... well, it's not a quiet moment, it'scarnivale.
Series: The Terror Hip Bingo [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1886383
Kudos: 12





	It takes all your power to prove that you don't care

**Author's Note:**

> _Angst on the planks, spittin' from a bridge  
>  Just to see how far down it really is  
> Robbing a bank, jumping on a train  
> Old antiques a man alone can entertain_  
>  _It takes all of your power  
>  To prove that you don't care  
> I'm not Cordelia, I will not be there._  
> \- Cordelia, The Tragically Hip

“Isn’t this marvellous, Edward,” Fitzjames says, his eyes shining in the lamplight, his fingers clutched a little too tightly in the sleeve of Edward’s jacket, like he’s not quite sure that Edward is really there. “I haven’t seen some of these men smile in…” He stops, shakes his head, and leans in, so that they are shoulder to shoulder. “Too long.”

“It seems you were right all along,” Edward allows. In their section of the tent, men are clapping and singing along with their fellows playing music on a makeshift stage. A lion here has its head bowed to listen to an animated rabbit speak; there, some colourful-skirted doxy is twirling merrily to delighted hoots and hollerings, and the clash of filled and refilled mugs. Edward holds his own drink in both hands; it’s not his first, nor even his second, and so he holds it stiffly, making sure that at least part of his attention is on the level of liquid left in the cup.

Across from the pair of them, Le Vesconte is having some kind of wild argument with Irving, and Edward starts a little towards the vehement gesticulations. FItzjames halts him with a tug on the same sleeve he is holding.

“You have a tendency to worry,” Fitzjames tells him. He indicates the two lieutenants with an expansive wave of his free arm and a wide grin on his face. Whatever he is drinking sloshes over his sleeve, but the captain does not appear to notice. “Give it a moment.”

Sure enough, Fitzjames is barely finished speaking before Le Vesconte sinks onto an exaggerated pose and thrusts his arm towards Irving, who for his part, mimes unsheathing a sword from his belt; it isn’t long before the two of them are locked into a duel with weapons of which their imaginary status do not seem to dampen the duelists’ enthusiasm for battle. Edward relaxes, and Fitzjames’ hold on him softens into a light curl of his hand into the crook of Edward’s arm.

“You see? The only casualties we have to worry about tonight are Lieutenant Irving’s wings,” Fitzjames says, triumphant. Despite himself, Edward laughs, lets his weight lean back a little against the other man.

“Perhaps his dignity as well, eh?” he says. Fitzjames squeezes his arm.

“It’s a small price tonight.” Fitzjames’ smile falters for a moment; Edward can feel him shift a little. He turns to face the captain, the movement gently trapping his hand so Fitzjames cannot draw away. The man stills, sighs; it is a long, juddering thing that Edward cannot remember hearing before.

“Sir?”

“I didn’t know if we would pull it off, Edward,” Fitzjames says, his voice low, unusually hesitant, as if he is telling some incredible secret. “It’s taken all I have just to keep...” He stops again, frowns. “They have all worked so hard whilst we have been here.”

The light is doing little to disguise the shadows at Fitzjames eyes, and as Edward studies him, he wonders if he chose his costume in part to hide that his clothes are fitting a little more loosely now, that there are frayed, worried edges at his cuffs from unthinking nails picking at loose threads. Someone passes by, blocks the light for a moment, and in the flicker of it, Edward is struck by the vulnerability in the captain's face. A rush of affection runs through him, and between the heady sway of it and the liquor he has consumed, he cannot help the daring lift of his hand and gentle rap of knuckles against the side of Fitzjames’ plumed helmet.

“You do yourself too little credit,” he says, and means it. “What you have given these men will be remembered for years to come.”

The laugh lines return to the corner of Fitzjames’ mouth. He wets his lips, and looks at Edward. For a moment, Fitzjames looks like he wants to say something else, to tell him something, but instead, his eyes search his face, in silence. He can feel his cheeks flush slightly under the scrutiny and he cannot help but wonder what the other man has found there. Fitzjames laughs, warm and easy.

“It _is_ a good party,” he says.


End file.
